


Charlie Gets Whipped

by KellerProcess



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Ableism, BDSM, Canon disabled characters, Emotional Abuse, F/M, IASIP AU, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Illness, Stalking, femmedom, gray ace Charlie, irresponsible use of BDSM, lots of trigger warnings. Please heed them, more to be added as needed, or what starts out that way anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mac and Charlie's bar runs into financial trouble, Mac finds a solution: seduce Philadelphia's wealthiest woman and most prominent nightclub owner into giving them fast cash! The only problem? Charlie's the one to do the seducing, and Deandra Reynolds's world--filled with mentally ill twin brothers, dysfunctional parents, secretaries who want to kill him, and a woman who fascinates him--isn't one he's prepared for. An IASIP AU and Fifty Shades of Grey parody by an author who hasn't read the book or seen the film but kind of read a summary once and who actually knows what BDSM is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charlie Gets Whipped

So it’s not like _Project Badass_ isn’t awesome and all, but Mac trying to jump over Delaware Bay on a motorcycle—

I dunno. Maybe that could’ve waited until _after_ we got the money?

Cast sucks for him, of course.  “But that is kind of cool and all,” I tell him. “I mean, you cleared like, what? Three yachts before you hit that pontoon, and you only broke your arm in two places?” I give him an eyebrow raise and slide the Bud down the bar. “Pretty badass, man.”

Mac grabs it with his left—rig—uh, like fuck I can remember, whichever hand isn’t a pig in a blanket right now and gives me this look.

“Dude…what?” I try to laugh it off. “Stop doing that. I opened it for you and everything!”

“Please, Charlie.”

I wave my hands at him again. “Oh my God, no! I am not gonna bang the Reynolds bitch! ” This time I shout. Maybe that’ll get him to drop it.

“Oh, come on! Look at me!” He holds both arms out and kind of shakes them, then stops and tries to hide that he just winced—seriously, he shouldn’t be moving that arm right now. “I mean,” he goes on, “girls are totally into guys with scars and injuries and shit. It looks manly.”

  1. I just nod. It’s easier that way for everyone. 



“Only this isn’t a hot, sexy scar, Charlie. It’s a goddamn cast.” He tilts his head. “Limits my range of motion, throws my wrist action off,” he singsongs. “I mean, this is my right hand. And I know you shouldn’t overdevelop one side in a workout, but we can’t all be perfect, so it’s also my dominant hand. How can I—I can’t just finesse her bra hinge open so I can bang those big, bountiful melons.”

 _Bra hinge._ Yeah. “Uh, I’m pretty sure they’re not, like, melons, exactly,” I tell him. “I think you mean lemons? Because, seriously. What are melons? I mean they kind of sound the same, but no, that’s clearly made up.”

“Sure, Charlie. I just made up melons.”

“But seriously, they’re not big,” I tell him. Because clearly Mac’s so gay he can’t even tell the difference between cup sizes anymore. “They’re more like—” I pretend like I’m holding out two _lemons_ and move them up to where my tits’d be if I had them. Wait. No. “No. Maybe more like—” I scrunch them up into fists.

Apples? Oranges? I mean, okay, so it’s not like Deandra Reynolds is, I dunno, Mila Kunis or—or whoever played that Russian spy chick in _Thundergun Express III: The Thunder Goes Down Under_ —but she’s pretty famous in Philadelphia. You see her on TV all the time at, like, charity things. Hospitals for cancer. Cutting ribbons at grocery stores or some shit. Judging beauty pageants. Once on this morning show thing that Mac and me watched because the fucking flatscreen wouldn’t get anything but FOX and that weird channel with the dancing diaper guys. I think she was talking about rats or something?

“No, Charlie, old boy.” I look over at the pool table. My inner ghoul Antonio is sitting in the middle of it again, doing his fingernails with the blue chalk cube. “You’re just obsessed with the nasty buggers, old chappy.  And, if I may be so forward, rather a bit spot guilty, given that you serve as you must serve as Lord High Executioner Chappy to entire nests of the poor blighters. No, old bean, our Ms. Reynolds was, indeed, discussing the opening of Joke’s on YOU, a nightclub for aspiring stand-up comedians.”

He flicks the chalk cube back into a side pocket.

“And indeed, old fellow, her breasts are quite like chicken’s eggs. Toodle-pip and what-ho ding-ding!”

Once when the TV broke a different way, it only got this stupid channel where everyone talked British and lived downtown with someone named Abbey. My inner ghoul sometimes talks like them. Also, I think he’s the one that broke the pool table that time when we were saving his cousins from the trolls, but no way am I gonna tell Mac that.

“Eggs…,” I say. “Yeah. Eggs.”

“Charlie? Uh….”

I blink and my inner ghoul is gone. Mac’s at the bar still, looking at me all weird.

“I’m—yeah. I’m thinking they’re more like eggs,” I tell him. “Her breasts are definitely not big. Or…mel…malo—whatever.”

I guess Mac thinks that makes sense, because he shoots me this grin. “See!”He slaps the bar with the pig in a blanket, clearly forgetting he’s, like, probably breaking his wrist even more. After he’s danced around with it between his legs yelling “fuck” a lot, he flops back onto the stool and holds it like it’s a baby. “Ow. Shit that—fuck. What I meant was, you know what you’re doing here!”

“I dunno, man. I mean—you know. It’s not really my thing. Um. Stuff. Breasts.”

“But you know they’re like eggs, Charlie. So that means you’re paying attention to them. Chicks like it when you pay attention to their tits. Look,” he goes on when I just kind of say “Uh,” to that, “here’s the thing. It’s almost March. And the last of our startup money ran out in December, and the only customer we’ve had since then is Ernie—”

“Yo.” Ernie waves to us from the table by the window where he’s been nursing like the same Coors all morning.

Mac grimaces and waves. “—so we haven’t paid him rent on Paddy’s in three months. And if we don’t pay him the rent, then man, we’re gonna have to close this place. And I dunno about you, but I don’t want to go back to living at my mom’s and wiping the man sweat off the Nautiluses at Gus’s Gym for a living. I mean, I do what I can to support those fine specimens of manly athleticism—there’s no shame in that; we should all do our parts. But two fine men like us should be entrepreneurs.”

It’s way too early for me to even start with the gayness here. Mac slides out of the stool and scoots it over to me. He puts his foot up on one of the rails and folds his arms, all serious.

“C’mon, Charlie. You want to live the dream, right?”

I bite on my lip and think it over. I like having my own place to work. Cleaning the basement. Killing rats. Helping Antonio with his troll-fighting ring after hours. No one telling me what to do. But banging that chick?

Then again, her breasts are like two hardboiled eggs. And I like eggs.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “Okay, okay,” I tell him as my finger comes up in a point. “But you owe me man.”

“Name it, bro.” He spreads his arms out again.

“This weekend. Dumpster crawling.”

“Jesus _Chri_ —” he sighs. “Fine. But only Saturday. Sunday’s the Lord’s day. And I’m pretty sure picking furniture and figurines and shit out of dumpsters qualifies as work, even if we’re gonna clean it up and sell it for more beer.”

I just shrug. I usually tune Mac out when he starts talking about God and shit. And anyway, I’ve got other shit to think about right now. “So when did you have this appointment with her again? Noon?”

“Two,” he says. “Oh, and, uh…no offense, man, but you really should shower and put on that suit you wore to Dad’s parole hearing. I mean, I don’t mind because we’re bros, but chicks really don’t like it when a guy smells like a toilet someone just puked up Brie in.”

“Fine. Okay. Whatever. I’ll shower.”

Shit. The things I do to for this place.


End file.
